The first week, Lucy slept in the guest room.
The second week, she started appearing in our doorway at night.
She had a reason each time. A noise she thought she heard. A dream that had woken her. A request to borrow a phone charger, which had somehow turned into her sitting on the edge of our bed at midnight and then, gradually, not leaving. By the third week, she was simply there when I woke up — folded on top of the blankets on my side, shoes still on, like someone who needed to be able to move quickly if necessary.I had asked Steven what he thought about it.
He had shrugged with the easy tolerance of a man comfortable in his own house. “She’s anxious,” he said. “Let her be. She’s family.”
I had told myself the same thing.
I was wrong.
What Lucy Said When I Asked Her Who Was Outside Our Door
